The Mother and The Artist - a Conversation

Grumpilina and Grumpilotta by Lilly and Twyla

I have always danced somewhere between the earth and the sky, preferring height and air to the feel of ground, and asphalt, and hard edges. In birthing this BIG I find myself withdrawing from the practical demands of figuring things out, and leaning into the meandering, dabbling, daydream lands where doodling and pouring ink reveal characters, and tales, and trails that beg to be followed. A little hand wraps itself around my stained fingers and a small person skips along by my side, traveling these newly revealed paths with the wonder necessary for the world to become enchanting again. Her presence feeding, driving, pushing and pointing me in directions I would never have noticed if not for her new and curious eyes. The accidents, limitations and glee of a toddler leaving me inspired, stretched, and profoundly exhausted. The kind of exhaustion that gives this strange, and at times disappointing life, a deeper kind of meaning. 

I am a mother. I am an artist. There is a constant, liquid juggling of charcoals and baby dolls. I find a  new groove, a frolic, a tango and a fresh interpretation of what it means to create, to collaborate, to nurture and to provide. I rediscover myself in the layering of one upon the other, feeding and informing back and forth and back again. Mothering unbridles my art making, and living a creative life imbues even the most challenging sleepless domestically laden moments with poetry and mystique.